


elastic hearts

by nitorisource



Series: ☂ SouMako Week ☂ [2]
Category: Free!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Blood, Injury, M/M, SouMako Week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-16
Updated: 2014-10-16
Packaged: 2018-02-21 08:49:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2462141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nitorisource/pseuds/nitorisource
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Makoto, the revered tribute hailing from District One, finds himself at the mercy of the unknown boy from some outlying district. He isn't sure whether it was a mistake to let Sousuke go when he had the chance to kill him earlier; then again, Sousuke is sparing him, too.</p>
<p>Day 2: <b>AU</b> / Crossover</p>
            </blockquote>





	elastic hearts

All he can hope to do is put one foot in front of the other, his heavy-grade boots crunching loudly through the newly fallen snow, while the knife-like cold seeps through his torn clothes and into his fresh wounds from every direction. It’s difficult to tell whether his vision is failing him or if it’s just that dark outside, but Makoto can’t tell sky from ground as he fervently searches for anything that can even be mildly used for shelter. He knows he’s going to pass out any moment now, and if he doesn’t die from sheer exposure to the elements, someone else will surely find his body and end him then.

There - in the distance, there is light. Warmth. Against his better discretion, he begins to make his way towards it; towards the tiny, dimly glowing encampment half-shrouded by thin, dead branches collected from the sparse forest the Gamemakers have given them. Makoto remembers rushing through that forest at the start of the games. He remembers the tiny boy from District Eight that one of the members of his alliance murdered with a spear through his frail, little chest. Remembers the way his blood gushed freely against the pristine, angelic snow, and melted straight through, hot and angry, before the boy could utter a word.

He’s still at least ten yards away from the beckoning source of warmth when he hears the footsteps coming towards him from the side, but he’s too disoriented from blood loss and pain to respond appropriately. By the time he turns to face his attacker, he’s already being tackled against the ground, and his body half-buries into the fresh snow pack.

Before he can scream out - it’s unbearable to have the frigid snow come into direct contact with the slash wound in his side - a gloved hand fits itself over his mouth and smothers his voice entirely. Makoto simply shuts his eyes, his body unable to fight back, while he feels himself begin to numb. His head, his ears, his arms, his legs - the longer he lays here, the less he feels himself.

At least it doesn’t hurt anymore. Not as much, anyway. He can still feel himself bleeding out, most likely dying the snow around him a disgusting shade of red, but he doesn’t pay mind to that right now.

He opens his eyes again and realizes that it’s not pitch black in the arena tonight. It seems the Gamemakers are feeling generous tonight - they’ve simulated a clear, starry night, though the stars are nothing more than pinpricks amid the inky blackness. Still, it’s better than anything Makoto has seen in District One, and for a few breathless moments he wonders how long it would take to count each one.

Not that he has much time to consider something so silly. His eyes droop shut again, this time against his will, and the last thought that manages to drift through his conscious mind is the hope that the boy with the teal eyes staring down at him will end it quickly.

 

The next morning, Makoto wakes up immobilized. He can’t move or feel his limbs, and for a mortifying second, he’s unsure about whether this is the merciless afterlife he’s been sentenced to or whether his limbs have simply been cut off.

As he struggles to sit up, his eyes adjusting to the familiar white landscape of the arena, he realizes he’s simply tightly wrapped up in a thermal blanket. He groans as he attempts to dislodge himself, his wounds straining with each movement, and realizes with a start that underneath his torn jacket are bandages covering his wounds. He pulls back a frayed piece of fabric and examines the hastily-done first aid work.

“Don’t fucking move.”

Makoto freezes as he’s told when Seven’s voice rings out through the barren terrain. In his hand is the spear, the only weapon Makoto could salvage when he ran, and he holds it out threateningly.

“I can’t hurt you like this,” Makoto tells him quietly, shifting his eyes down. The throbbing in his head has steadily intensified and now it hurts just to attempt to remember Seven’s name. The best he can recall is pinning the black-haired boy down during the bloodbath, and glancing into his eyes the night before.

“I’m sure you’d find a way. You’re a career, aren’t you?”

Makoto flinches at the uninhibited resentment in Seven’s deep voice. He has always seemed angry, though this time there are no peacekeepers to keep him restrained. “Well, not anymore. As you can see.” Right now, as his thoughts clear, all he can wonder is why Seven hasn’t killed him yet, and when he’ll do it. Maybe he wants to make a show of it, to rile the Capitol citizens up for some beloved gruesomeness.

As if to answer Makoto’s panicked stream of questions, Sousuke speaks up again, stabbing the butt of the spear into the snow as he says, “You’re going to help me. That’s why you’re still alive.”

Makoto glances up, his eyes wide and wary. “What do you--”

“The rest of the career pack. They’re down to four now, aren’t they? You’re going to help me end the rest of them.”

Makoto lowers his eyes again and feels his chest twist, as though part of him just shrivelled up and died, and feels exponentially worse the next moment when he chastises himself for thinking that maybe there was more to the way Seven kept him alive. His fingers run unconsciously over the bandaged part of his side as he glances up and bites out, “I can’t help you with that.”

“So you’d rather I kill you now?”

Makoto says nothing, and Sousuke throws his hands up in exasperation.

“Look, One. I know you can still fight, even like that. And I know you think just like them, so that’s what I need.”

“Is this for revenge?” Makoto asks him quietly. “Because that will get you nowhere. We’re outnumbered, outgunned, and--”

“For fuck’s sake,” Sousuke mutters. He stalks forward, leaving the spear where it is, and leans down so that he can grab Makoto by the collar of his shirt. He heaves the boy up easily, just high enough so that Makoto is gasping for air and straining against Sousuke’s grasp. “I’m not asking. Do you understand?”

There’s no swaying this man from his decision, that much Makoto understands as Seven’s fury-filled eyes bore deep into his, so he manages to choke out a, “Yes, yes,” until he’s dropped back into the snow. He has to bite back his whimpers of pain as he wraps his hands around his sides and prays that the gashes haven’t reopened.

Sousuke kneels down on one knee as he leans again into Makoto’s face, his expression unbreaking, as he says, “And don’t misunderstand. We’re together only until one of us dies. Before that happens, don’t even think about turning on me.”

Makoto doesn’t doubt the threat laying beneath Seven’s words.

He can only imagine what the rest of his district must think as he demurely lowers his gaze and softly says, “Understood.”

**Author's Note:**

> ......................... romantic


End file.
